If there’s one place I never expected to be on a Monday morning, it’s sitting across from Mr. Kaplan with a manila folder open between us like we’re about to negotiate a plea deal.

“Logan,” he says, with that tired smile adults get when they think they’re being understanding, “you need another elective this semester. Something light. Something that can give your GPA a bump.”

I lean back in the chair, nodding like I care. “Sure. What are my options?”

He flips through a few sheets of paper like it matters, but I know he’s already made up his mind. He slides one across the desk toward me. Creative Writing.

I raise an eyebrow. “You want me to write poems or something?”

Mr. Kaplan chuckles. “You might surprise yourself. It’s not about writing the next great novel. Just show up, turn in the assignments, and be open to… expression.”

Expression. Right.

“I just need to stay eligible for soccer,” I mutter.

“That’s the idea.” He folds his hands. “Logan, this is a chance to try something different. You’ve got a voice. Use it.”

I nod again, because that’s what you do when you want to get out of a room. Smile, agree, escape. I grab the paper, stuff it in my backpack, and head out before he can say anything else that sounds like a life lesson.